


On the early life of the famous Viktor Krum

by BrieflyDel (newredshoes)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bulgaria - Freeform, Durmstrang, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-03
Updated: 2005-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/BrieflyDel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five connected drabbles. Character- and world-building for my favorite series minor character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the early life of the famous Viktor Krum

**Author's Note:**

> Written between December 2005 and November 2006

I.

  
Viktor Krum was a fat child, and resigned to the fact. Not even this was special about him. He lived with his parents and his father’s mother in a concrete tower, in a drab neighborhood in the east of Sofia. His whole family were witches and wizards: his grandmother used to speak sometimes of the age of the Krum line, and how there were still plaques dedicated to his forebears in the Apollonius Academy in Thrace. But now they were obscure and without privilege, and that was not special either. Viktor’s parents worked low-level jobs in the Bulgarian Ministry. Both had gone to Thrace for school, and neither had ever been out of the country.

Other than being fat, Viktor was awkward. He slumped his shoulders, and walked like a duck. He preferred to read above all else, though he enjoyed going to Quidditch matches, because his parents liked them so much. His mother had been a Beater when she was young, and could provide both rousing commentary and stories during games. Sometimes when they all visited friends out in the suburbs, Viktor would be offered a leg up on someone’s big brother’s battered old broom. The first few tries were disastrous, but once he lost his fear of falling, he liked it well enough. 

He never did much magic as a small child, and that too was ordinary. His family was not worried, and as he neared his eleventh birthday, all were confident he would receive the familiar letter from the Apollonius Academy. When the day came, the four of them were crowded about a card table, eating banitza pastries and crepes. Conversation was light and anxious; as it was April, they left the windows open. 

Baba spotted it first. She dropped the remains of her pastry and pointed, half covering her mouth. “Oh!” They all turned: a ponderous shape was winging its way over the back lot. Viktor’s mother stood up. No one spoke a word. Viktor felt his ribs tighten around his stomach and lungs. They did not have to wait long. 

The bird landed on the window ledge, folded its magnificent wings, and croaked at the Krums. The Krums all looked at each other. Something was wrong, the owl was never this grand. Viktor sat staring at the messenger, his hands in his lap. He had not imagined the moment would be this frightening. Baba pushed him a little from behind. “Go on, Viktor; take the letter.” 

The owl — an eagle owl — ruffled its feathers and croaked again. Viktor swallowed, rose and approached it. It held out one stiff leg, deigning to hold still while the boy undid the string and took the letter. His mother, his father and his grandmother all craned their necks to see what it said. The shape of Viktor’s back was not telling. After a few minutes, the boy turned around to face his family, his skin drained of color. 

“It’s from Durmstrang,” he said quietly, holding the parchment very tight. 

“What!” exclaimed his father, his brow instantly furrowed. “Let me see it, Viktor; perhaps there’s been a mistake.” His mother gasped. Baba was squinting between her grandson and the eagle owl. 

The bird lifted its head and gave one more grating cry. Only Viktor was watching as it hopped off the concrete ledge and threw itself into the void, winging higher and higher and away. 

They argued about it and avoided it for days and weeks on end. Most of the time Viktor spent weak-kneed at the thought. Durmstrang was the greatest school of Slavic magic in the world. He didn’t know anyone who had ever gone, or was invited. It was in Russia; he spoke or understood no Russian, and he worried about how cold it would be, should he go. His friends and his whole family had gone or were going to the Apollonius Academy. It was affordable and comfortable, even for the Krums. Why should he go to Durmstrang? Why did Durmstrang even want him? 

Baba was pounding her cane again. “You cannot send him!” she proclaimed, that early summer night. “He is not cut out for it. Viktor is an introvert, he likes books and stories and listening to Quidditch on the radio. He is not one of them — there is no way that he can be considered powerful!” 

“It is Viktor’s choice, Baba, and Apollonius has not sent us a letter. Perhaps Durmstrang will help, if they want him.” His mother sounded more hopeful than optimistic. 

“You cannot do this,” the old witch repeated. “You send him there, they will make a bricklayer of him. He will come home and he will have walled the whole world out. I have seen it happen before. You know he is not much of one for competition!” 

“Viktor will choose,” his mother repeated firmly. In the other room, Viktor sank lower into the couch, his novel limp in his hands. 

They found a Charms master adept in language spells. They bought Viktor as many new clothes as they could. They took him to the best wandmaker, who matched him with a wand with dragon’s heartstrings in the center. “A powerful core for a powerful wizard,” the beefy, mustachioed man told them. “I expect to hear of you in the future, Mr. Krum.” Viktor had not smiled, only nodded solemnly, gripping the hornbeam handle very tightly. 

Before he decided to go to Durmstrang, he asked his parents if he could come home and transfer if he felt that was best. They said yes, and at the end of August, Viktor Krum became the only Bulgarian that year to buy passage to Moscow in order to catch the train to his new school. The journey alone convinced him that he would have to suffer terribly to want to make it in return prematurely; it was not until he arrived at the Institute that he understood that in truth, his ticket was one-way. 

II.

  
He took a Muggle airplane to Moscow, because whatever the Krums could afford in the wizarding world, gold went farther in the other one. Viktor’s father spent three hours working on his papers the night before he left. By the end, Viktor had a portfolio of blank pages that would resemble proper documentation at any checkpoint. They came in handy, because he had to go through customs twice, once at Kiev, where he had to change planes, and again when he came into Russia.

It was the highest up he had ever been, and the fastest. A garbled voice came on from the ceiling saying that they had reached a cruising speed of 700 kilometers per hour, at 9,200 kilometers up. Viktor had brought a book to read, but he ignored it in favor of the window on his right. Most of Romania was cloudy, but he didn’t care, for the sight of clouds from the top was the most beautiful in his life to date. He knew there were dragon preserves down there, and wondered if they ever came this high. Viktor had never seen a dragon in person. His father had a picture book which he had often stolen and memorized as a child. Maybe they had live ones at Durmstrang? For all Viktor knew, it could be possible. 

He arrived at Moscow Vnukovo Airport at two in the afternoon, but it was 3:30 before he could escape the Muggle bureaucracy and catch a taxicab. His trunk was too large for the back of the automobile, so the driver had to lash the trunk door half-shut with cables. Viktor stood by awkwardly, watching, until he finished. When he climbed in the back of the cab, an eleven-year old child alone, the driver asked only where he was going, and he felt both strangely exhilarated and lonelier than ever. “Komsomolskaya Radialnaya,” he said carefully, very much aware that while the language charm had given him command of Russian, it did nothing about his Bulgarian accent. The driver made no comments, though, and turned on the radio. 

The taxi had to cross the entire city, leaving Viktor plenty of time to go over his itinerary. The letter that had arrived at the beginning of July had been full of mysteries. Viktor’s mother had had to approach Stoyan Novoseletz, Junior Minister of International Magical Affairs and fourteen years out of Durmstrang, and ask him for advice. He had been so pleased to hear of another Bulgarian selected for the Institute that he’d had the Krums over for dinner in his nice flat in the center of Sofia. Novoseletz painted such an invigorating portrait of life at Durmstrang that by the end of the evening, Viktor knew that he had no choice but to go, as it was the best anyone could offer him. 

After he paid the driver, he stood outside the train station, trunk loaded onto a cart, trying to remember exactly how it was supposed to work. There were paintings on the ceiling, and giant mosaics on the walls. One of these mosaics bristled with gold weaponry — swords and axes and arrows, crowned with a pointed helmet. Most public art, Novoseletz had said, goes completely unnoticed. Which is why no one is ever seen approaching the mosaic and walking right through to their platform. “If you think anyone is watching, pretend to examine the art,” he’d advised. “People are in a hurry in train stations. You’ll bore them quickly if you’re not in the way and stand still.” 

Viktor hadn’t any ideas of what to expect from the Komsomolskaya station, though he soon realized that any discussion of gold-leaf frescoes should have tipped him off. As soon as he came through the huge archway, the sight of [the interior](http://www.beeflowers.com/Metro/Komsomolskaya/Kom1/mainpage.htm) rooted him to tiled floor. The whole station glowed yellow by the light of chandeliers. Nearly every part of the structure was ornamented with curling white reliefs. No one indeed stopped to marvel at the paintings, each depicting glorious events in Muggle Russia’s past. 

The flow of the crowd didn’t allow him to gape for long. The train was due to leave at six o’clock, and forty minutes beforehand was the beginning of a long rush hour. Viktor hurried as best he could with the rest of them, looking for a mosaic that matched Novoseletz’s description. It took him nearly twenty minutes more to [locate it](http://www.beeflowers.com/Metro/Komsomolskaya/Kom1/imagepages/image13.htm), and by the time he did, he was panicking. He stopped in front of it, checking over both shoulders to see if anyone was watching him. 

Someone was watching him. It was a girl his own age, dressed in the solemn jumper and stockings of a religious Polish Jew. Three others were with her – a dapper, olive-skinned man with curly hair; a slightly older girl, who looked like him in both body and dress; and a boy who presumably was the first girl’s twin, but she was the only one who noticed Viktor. She stared at him without apology while the others in her party scanned the room for something. Viktor grew embarrassed and pretended to examine a non-existent map in his hands. Before he could look up to see if they were gone, a finger tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Excuse me, are you going through too?” It was the grown-up, the three children at his elbow. His Russian was accented as well. Viktor’s hopes rose. 

“My train is going to Durmstrang,” he said cautiously. 

“I told you,” said the Polish girl, not cracking a smile. Her brother, on the other hand, beamed. 

“Is it your first time too? It’s our first time. Except for Selia, it’s her third.” 

“Zev!” Selia snapped. “Stop chattering, we’re blocking the way.” 

“Are you alone?” the man asked Viktor. He nodded. “Well, you can come along with us, one more is no trouble.” Selia pursed her lips and without waiting, pushed her cart up to the mosaic and was swallowed by it. Viktor had seen these kinds of hidden doors before; he followed suit, relieved that he had picked up someone who could help him. 

The Durmstrang platform was swarming with parents and students hurrying to board. The train itself looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1920’s, but given that the upkeep seemed to have been rather good, there might not have been any need. Viktor didn’t have much time to admire it from the outside, as Selia’s father (it couldn’t be otherwise, the way they acted around each other, he attentive and she impatient) herded them onboard with a fond farewell to the two Polish children and a pleasant nod at Viktor. “Do you want to sit with us?” the boy Zev asked as they shuffled through the corridor. 

“Okay,” replied Viktor, finally comfortable enough to feel shy rather than simply overwhelmed. 

The four of them came to an empty compartment and streamed in. Viktor was the last in, and stood in the doorway a bit dumbfounded when he realized they were in sleeper cars, with spacious pull-out bunk beds on either side. The twins took the top bunks right away, the older girl the lower left; Viktor shut the door and made his way to the remaining bed. 

Zev leaned over the edge of his and let his arms dangle with the motion of the train. “We haven’t actually been introduced. I’m Zev Jozefski, and that’s my sister Penina. We’re from Chelm. That’s in Poland. And just so you know, we’re not idiots.” 

“You may be. I’m not,” said Penina, again without cracking a smile. 

Viktor craned his neck to look between the two. “Why would you be idiots?” 

“The Fools of Chelm,” said the other girl, half-shadowed because she was leaning against the back wall. “There’s a legend that this village was full of idiots, but they all considered themselves the wisest people in the world. A Muggle writer did books about them.” 

“And you’re not,” Viktor finished, hesitantly amused. 

“Well, we fooled you all into thinking it, didn’t we!” Zev grinned. 

“And you’re all wizards?” 

“We wouldn’t be going to Durmstrang if we weren’t. We could have stayed at home, but I’m sick of the yeshiva. I can’t wait to wear a different uniform.” 

Viktor turned to the other girl. “I don’t know you yet,” he mumbled. 

She looked at him. “Selia Mamelin. I’m from Vilna. They’re family friends of ours. Our parents worked it out for them to come with us from Lithuania. What about you?” 

He looked at his hands. “Viktor Krum. I’m from Bulgaria.” 

“Thought you had an accent!” crowed Zev, his hair falling over his face. “I just didn’t know where from. I didn’t know you people came to Durmstrang.” 

“We don’t, usually. We have a very good school in Thrace, mostly—” 

“Well, you’ve got to be really something to come there from anywhere but Russia, that’s what my parents say.” 

Viktor became interested in the window. Zev chattered at them until they all became exhausted by it, and turned out the cabin light to go to sleep. The train jostled Viktor as he lay there on the thin mattress, the blanket held up to his chin. 

III.

  
The train skimmed over the ground all night and half the next morning too. Breakfast was an eager affair: even Penina found it in herself to converse, as long as the topic was their new school and what it was to be like. Selia mostly smirked while the Jozefski twins speculated. Viktor listened to their increasingly fanciful guesses with less of a weight in his chest than he’d felt during the night. By the time the train slowed to a halt, he was half sure they’d be whisked away to an amber palace on the backs of flying, talking bronze boars.

What greeted them upon disembarking was distinctly different, though Viktor could not truthfully say he felt let down. The end of the rail line was an elevated platform in the middle of a wide clearing of trees. They seemed to have stopped in the middle of a vast pine forest. Mountains cut the horizon short, swathed in both snow and clouds. A shimmer over the grounds spoke of scattered lakes. Viktor peered from the top step of the train stair, trying to take it all in from the highest vantage point they’d have. 

“Move it, fatty!” snapped a voice from behind. It was a girl Viktor did not know. Abashed, he hopped down the steps to the platform, and followed Zev and Penina into what looked like a herd of uncertain first-years. The cool air felt good after so many hours in the train compartment, although Viktor was a little worried at the sensation that he had absolutely no idea where he was. A seventeen-hour journey at who knows how fast and where could put them deep into Siberia or the Urals—those were his best guesses, as he had a feeling they had come east, but that was all. 

The older students, most of them paying little or no attention to the new ones, walked past grinning and calling out good-byes. A few people tried following them, but were chased back. “Where are we supposed to go?” someone cried. The strangest sound Viktor had ever heard in his life to date answered. 

It was a stone man clearing his throat—or at least, that was the nearest explanation for it. For there was indeed a rough-hewn stone man standing at the edge of a platform, one hand-shaped appendage resting on a rope that rose up into a pulley. The first-years gaped at him; he stared calmly (and a bit resignedly) back. Something like an elevator waited behind him, a massive wood lift that would bring them the twenty-five feet down to the forest floor. For a long moment, no one, not even Zev, moved. The sounds of the older students faded away, until they were alone with the matchless quiet of the pine forest. Then, one boy toward the front stepped hesitantly onto the platform. The stone man bowed his head. The rest of them followed. 

Once all the new students had been collected, an iron gate slid between them and the train station. With a sigh, the stone man began lowering them, slackening the rope and operating the pulley without aid. A few people shrieked. Zev clutched Viktor’s arm, wide-eyed. But the stone man was patient and steady, and they came to the ground without so much as a bump. 

A man was waiting for them at the bottom. He was tall and imposing, towering almost twice the height of anyone else. “Greetings!” he said with an impressive amount of false cheer. He spread his arms. “My name is Professor Karkaroff. I am to guide you to your new home for the next seven years — and your life, as Durmstrang will always welcome its proud sons and daughters any time they yearn to come back. You all must do as I say and follow quietly, for if you are lost in the forest, we will not be able to find you again.” The girl next to Viktor, the one who had called him a fatty, shivered. Karkaroff smiled again: Viktor noticed that his teeth were discolored, and frowned. 

“You will only come this way to the Durmstrang Institute this one time, for it is through this route that you will be sorted into your four houses. I cannot explain very much more than that, except for this: the four houses are Bear, Eagle, Elk and Wolf; you will know which has chosen you by the time you arrive.” His eye fell on Viktor, gazing up at him like all the rest and very thankful that his parents had spent enough money on that Russian language charm. For a moment, Karkaroff’s lip seemed to curl. It was gone in a flash, and Viktor only gave it a second thought because he knew he had very good eyes. He didn’t need another reason to feel self-conscious, but Professor Karkaroff had just given him one. 

“I’ve heard about him!” whispered another boy, just behind Viktor’s ear. “He’s very controversial! I heard he used to be a criminal!” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” spat the name-calling girl. “Why would Durmstrang hire someone who’d broken the law? It’s a school!” The boy seemed cowed into silence. Viktor kept his focus on making sure he didn’t trip over his feet. Karkaroff was leading them on a worn path between the trees. As they got farther from the platform, the sunlight grew dim and the smell of pine sap grew overpowering. Conversation was muted at best. They walked for what felt like a very long time, until finally Karkaroff called a halt. 

“Now here lies the gateway to the rest of your life,” he proclaimed with self-important grandeur. He had stopped them at a point in the forest where, inconceivably, the trees grew thicker and the light almost disappeared. A sort of tunnel of arching branches stretched into the woods before them. The first-years huddled even closer together, even those who did not care to admit it. “When I call your name, walk through. That is all. Do not rush — there may be things you want to see — but do not dawdle, because you are keeping six years’ worth of your classmates waiting as you do.” With great ceremony, he withdrew a roll of parchment from an inner pocket and unfurled it. “Antje Anamatova.” 

A plump blonde girl with a double plait down her back pushed through the crowd. She looked up at Karkaroff, clutching her wand nervously. Karkaroff extended an inviting hand toward the tunnel. Antje Anamatova audibly exhaled, then walked in without looking back. She vanished behind a sudden fog that alarmed everyone, except tall Karkaroff. They all waited, murmuring anxiously, until, all at once, a brilliant flash of white light traveled up through the tunnel and the fog evaporated. Karkaroff grinned again. “Bravo! See? It is very easy. Next: Casimir—” 

Viktor did not listen to the rest of his classmates’ names. He hung about off to the side, hugging his elbows and staring at the needle-strewn forest floor. Zev punched his elbow companionably when he was called up; Viktor gave him a weak smile, mostly because he knew his own name would be coming up any minute now. 

Very shortly after, Karkaroff glanced at his parchment again and pronounced, “Viktor — Krum.” He ran his gaze over Viktor — awkward, fat, foreign Viktor — and this time he definitely smirked. “You will have to pardon me for my little chuckle,” he said, leaning close, “but it is very funny in English.” It was the last time Igor Karkaroff would apologize to Viktor for many, many years. 

Viktor glared at him, and without waiting for Karkaroff stomped into the tunnel. The fog rushed in to cut him off from the others. He turned around too late to see what their reactions would be. Now it was just him and the forest, the final taut moments between himself and Durmstrang. 

He proceeded cautiously at first, even holding his wand out like he knew how to use it. Nothing came into his path, though, and, somewhat disappointed after all the build-up, he plodded on. Yet soon it became obvious to him that he was being accompanied: something was following him just out of reach on the other side of the trees. He didn’t turn his head, just slid his eyes to the right to see what it was. A gigantic bear was trundling beside him, its head bobbing up and down. It glowed slightly in the gloom. Viktor’s breath caught in his throat, but he kept walking, in the hopes that the bear would ignore him and wander away. 

The bear did. But something soon distracted him again: a steady crack of breaking twigs to his left. He glanced over his shoulder to see a huge elk trotting just out of sight, also glowing. Viktor sped up his pace, brow furrowed. The elk tossed its head, leaving a smear of light behind Viktor’s eyelids, and snorted. It retreated into the forest. 

Viktor had been sure than no more than two or three minutes had usually been passing at the mouth of the tunnel between entrances, but this seemed to go on forever. His heart began pounding even harder when he noticed a wolf weaving in between the tree trunks, panting loudly and thumping with its enormous feet. Viktor’s grip on his wand tightened. He had to be close to the end now, this had gone on for much too long already— 

The forest went pitch black. Viktor heard the rush of wings overhead. He followed the sound, blindly, almost at a run. He thought he was going to faint from nerves, collapse in the middle of the tunnel and be lost forever like Karkaroff had hinted he might. A flash of white light engulfed him, and he threw his arms up over his eyes. A harsh cry made him open them. 

He was standing on a stage, at the front of an enormous stone hall full of red-robed people. Tall, narrow stained glass windows lined the walls like rows of soldiers. A fire blazed in the middle of the floor. A ghostly eagle was hovering before him. It shrieked once, and shot up toward the ceiling, where it circled once, then dove down toward Viktor. He stood rooted to the spot, certain that he would be killed in an instant, an example to everyone of the wrong sort of wizard that had no place at Durmstrang. But the eagle did no such thing: instead, it spread its wings and alighted on Viktor’s shoulder, glaring all around at the slack-jawed congregation. 

Viktor stood stock still, unable to move even if he had wanted to. A somewhat dazed female voice proclaimed “Viktor Krum!” and as though loosed from a trance, nearly everyone in the hall broke into applause. The eagle was heavy: Viktor could feel it kneading its talons into his shoulder. It did not linger long, rising up with one final cry and vanishing in another burst of light. Viktor tried to see where it had disappeared to, but on turning around, he only noticed that the tunnel of branches had somehow become a stone archway on the back wall. 

A middle-aged witch not even as old as his mother approached him and pointed him toward the table cheering loudest, all the way to the left. In a daze, Viktor stumbled off the stage and fell into a seat. Immediately he was pounced upon by other members of the Eagle house. 

“Wow, what a show! Viktor Krum, eh?” 

“That hasn’t happened in ages! Nobody’s mascot ever even comes close to them during the sorting!” 

“My name’s Timofei Poliakoff, Viktor, I hope—” 

“Viktor Krum! Where did they find you?” 

“Where are you from?” 

He shook his head and buried his face in his hands, just in time to realize how hard he was shaking. 

~

_He stood awkwardly at the gate in the airport in Sofia, his tongue too thick to make any proper good-byes._

“Be careful up there,” Baba warned, clutching the top of her cane with both hands. “Do not let them be cruel to you. You’re as good as the rest of them if you’ve been invited, so don’t let them forget it!” 

“Be sure to write us often—it’s sure to be so exciting!” said his father cheerfully. Viktor tried to swallow and nodded. His mother came last. 

“You are Viktor Krum,” she told him, hugging him one more time. “Now you go and show them just what that means.” 

IV.

  
Viktor Krum kept quiet at Durmstrang. Unless you were up to the cockfight that was nearly every encounter at the school, you kept your teeth together, especially if you had a funny accent. Viktor had studied a little Russian before he came, but he lived in constant fear that somehow, someone would deprive him of the spell that lent him literacy. Not being in total control of what came out of his mouth was disconcerting: still, that was hardly the worst of things he lived with now.

Durmstrang was not interested in Viktor Krum’s silence. The spectacular display at his sorting into Eagle House had everyone curious about the unimposing Bulgarian boy. Being an object of curiosity meant being subject to all manner of tests from the other students and the instructors. Rostropovich, the transfiguration master, had grilled him on the elements in front of the whole class during their first lesson. Ganelin, the charms professor, had chosen him to demonstrate the principle of levitation with a brass feather which Viktor could not lift. Ovcharova the astronomer did not seem to understand that, having grown up in a city, Viktor was not familiar with the stars by sight. Beloi the historian had been very stern when he could not name any of the major players in the Sino-Russian Alchemical Symposium of 1124. Viktor had tried to make amends during the lesson introducing the Greeks, but the young witch would hear none of it, and so Viktor had to sit through his classmates bumbling through the one thing he knew well. 

At least with the teachers, there was some token of improvement that Viktor could impress upon them, with study. His fellow classmates were much harder to negotiate. Zev remained a fast, if overwhelming, friend, but Zev had been sorted into Elk that first day, and his sister Penina had sat down with the Bears. Selia Mamelin was in his house, but he could hardly go clinging to an older girl for company here. Viktor had to learn to live with four other Eagles in their austere dormitory. Isidor Marisova thought he was smarter than everyone else; Kiril Chernienko and Arkady Tamirov were still in the throes of immediate best friendship; and Viktor spent every ounce of self-control keeping himself civil around Porfiry Guliyev. 

Porfiry was a thin redhead from Archangel who could not believe he’d come all the way to Durmstrang just to room with a low-class Vulgarian. He took every opportunity to insinuate that Viktor was not enough of a Slav to attend Durmstrang. It was a complaint he’d never come across before. Viktor knew most of the Muggles from his region seemed to have grievances with the Turks, but in the magical community, they were the only people to go to for learning about charms and divination. His sole comfort as the attacks came hard and thick was that Porfiry had to have no idea what he was talking about. 

“Why didn’t you just go to Isfahan?” he would sneer from his bed. “How come you had to show up here and bother all of us?” 

Viktor did not look at him. “Do you mean Istanbul? Isfahan is in Persia.” 

Porfiry squinted. “Well, it doesn’t matter, you’re still just a stupid Turk in our eyes.” 

He didn’t punch him. He didn’t hex him. He didn’t inform him that of the many Turkish families in the apartment building he grew up in, none of them were stupid and all of them had only ever been welcoming and friendly in his experience. “At least I’m not a self-absorbed Russian who can only insult geography he doesn’t know,” he said over his shoulder. 

Porfiry leaped up, “You think you’re so much better than everyone else? Well, let me tell you, you’re not supposed to be here. I asked my parents what it was like when they went to Durmstrang, and they don’t ever remember having to put up with some stinking Vulgarian in their classes.” 

“I don’t think anything, Porfiry. I got my letter just like you did.” He looked around at the three others who were not speaking one way or another. “We’re equals.” 

The pale boy blazed. “I’ll show you that we’re not. Let’s see how you take to the cold when it comes. I grew up with it, I don’t mind it at all. But let’s see what you think of the steppes when the wind is blowing and there’s no sunlight and the snow is higher than you are. That’ll settle a thing or too.” 

Viktor made no reply. He buried himself in his textbook, preparing for the worst lesson of all. 

Igor Karkaroff was Master of the Dark Arts. He was also very close to the ancient Headmistress, Oleg Theodosia, of whom it was whispered she was losing her touch. Viktor was taken as one more proof of that. Since people said it, he wanted to feel some tug of rapport with her, some token that they were both in on a good joke, but whenever he saw the old witch, she was distant, unreachable, lost to the students either in thought or in conversation. Viktor had no friend in the headmistress, who would not prevent Karkaroff from teaching by example. 

“The Dark Arts have a coherent theory behind them,” he said that day, grinning horribly with his stained and crooked teeth. “They are no different in structure or composition than their counterparts, which do not seem to require a name beyond simple ‘magic.’ In fact, in places like England, you will often find people who protest these arts quite vehemently on the surface use them on others with no compunction at all when they feel it necessary or convenient.” His face always twisted horribly when he spoke of England. No one was ever quite certain what sort of charges he had met in his years abroad there, but many concluded that no matter what, Karkaroff’s bitterness was probably the fault of the English. 

“All magics, Dark or no, are concerned with the imposition of the wielder’s will on the world. Whether it be for change, challenge, or concealment…” He scanned the classroom, all dutifully taking notes. “It warps the world, and is always detectable.” Karkaroff lifted his wand. “For instance! We may use magic to fit in, to gain an advantage where perhaps we do not belong. Krum!” 

His stomach sank. “Yes, sir?” 

Karkaroff smirked. “Where are you from, Krum?” 

“Sofia, Bulgaria, sir.” His hometown was hardly a secret. Viktor knew something awful was coming, but he only sat there, wishing desperately he knew how to deflect it. 

The tall wizard began pacing. “You do not speak Russian there.” 

He lifted his eyes and held them on his. “You do not speak Bulgarian here, sir.” 

Karkaroff grinned again. “No. We don’t.” He pointed his wand at Viktor and spoke a word, only it was too late as he said it, because the moment the spell reached him, Viktor could not understand Russian anymore. Karkaroff asked him a question, but he just sat there, gripping his quill. The rest of the class laughed, some less nervously than others. 

“You’re awful,” Viktor said, glaring at the professor. “We can’t afford that charm twice.” Karkaroff leaned forward and held a hand behind his ear, enjoying his sport. With a careless gesture, the meaning of his words became clear again, all at once. 

“So you see, all magics are detectable. There are signs, patterns to them that leap out at you. Some Dark magics are very good at disguising this; others shriek it to the very air around you.” 

Viktor did not take any notes for the rest of the class. He simply sat there, eyes fixed on Karkaroff. When the class was over, he waited for the teacher to approach him, to explain himself or apologize, but Karkaroff ignored him and Viktor was the last to leave the room. 

A girl was waiting for him outside, clutching her books to her chest. Viktor recognized her — she was an Elk. Her name was something strange. Roman-sounding. Her fingers were pressed tight against her books. “I thought what he did was awful,” she whispered to him, fiercely. 

_Agrippina._

Viktor bowed his head. 

“I am from the Ukraine,” she added. “We are like each other.” 

He could not look up. “Thank you.” 

She stood watching him, her knees touching. “Um.” If she said more, he did not stay to hear it. Viktor left, and did not speak to anyone until he came to the library, and he took his solace there without making a sound. 

V.

  
Every student at the Durmstrang Institute flew. It was a required part of the schedule, because while there was a castle, lessons were not all centralized. Certain Herbology classes took place far out on the grounds, nestled in the forest or on the steppe. Magical Creatures required some field study, and there were some charms that simply were not meant to be performed indoors. The students shared from a communal stable of brooms – not racing quality, and hardly suited to Quidditch, but sturdy in the wind and very sure of direction. Durmstrang had a very high opinion of enforced athleticism: the timetable between these classes even allowed for play and experimentation. Viktor had heard a good deal about this from his dinner with Stoyan Novoseletz before coming to the school, and like other impending elements, had been nervous about it. Prior to his enrollment at Durmstrang, he had spent very little time on a broom.

Still, prior to his enrollment at Durmstrang, he had had very limited opportunity to experience space like he did at the school. People tended to leave him alone while in transit, so Viktor hovered off to the side of the traveling groups and just let himself skim. Despite the chill, dry air, the roughness of the landscape, the weight of his bag on his back, he loved it. The broomstick was the one place where things were simple, reduced to control and velocity. 

Nestor Sidorenko was the head of Eagle House. People said, laughingly, that it was because he looked like an egg. He did not mind: he was Master of Magical Beasts, and was far too calm to let a human taunt bother him. His classes were always the farthest out from the castle, and he stood outside his compound every lesson, waiting for his students to arrive and seeing them off when their work was over. Sidorenko prided himself on knowing everyone in his House. He was slow, methodical in introducing himself, but the older Eagles spoke glowingly of him, fiercely loyal for such an independent group. 

One Friday afternoon, he asked Viktor to stay and help put away cages. “How are you finding the Institute?” he said, in his quiet, unshakeable voice. 

“It is challenging,” Viktor answered, not sure what he was expected to say. 

“It is meant to be. Is it making you happy yet?” 

He paused. “Sometimes.” 

“Much is expected of you, I think. Even before the eagle landed on you at the Sorting. It is not easy, to be from somewhere other than far western Russia.” 

Viktor looked up. “Where are you from?” 

Sidorenko smiled. “I have no room to talk. I grew up in a suburb of Moscow. But I have known students from places farther out than Bulgaria. The Siberians, when they come, have a very rough time. Everyone expects them to act like Russians from St. Petersburg, but they usually cannot.” 

“How did you get to be Head of your House?” Viktor asked. 

“Because I had the right combination of administrative know-how, academic prestige, and concern for my students. That is the simple answer. The truth is, it is something that seems to happen on its own. People emerge, Viktor: that’s what time gives us. Sometimes we do not immediately know why we are put where we are. But in time, in their own ways, we see the Elks looking out for each other, the Wolves banding together to accomplish great things, the Bears taking stands for what they want to protect, and the Eagles finding their own way to fulfillment. Does that make sense to you?” 

It did not, entirely, though something happy in Viktor surged upward at the kindness Sidorenko showed him. It held him even after he left, the broom reduced to an extension of that joy. He did not think to look back, and watch Sidorenko standing at his door, arms folded, watching him. 

*

This is how Viktor Krum spent his first year at Durmstrang: he never missed a class, he never missed an assignment, he never allowed anyone of any rank an excuse to belittle him; he made some friends whom he kept very close, and he trained on a racing broom for the first time in his life. Three times a week, he took two hours in a distant part of the grounds with Pelagea Beloi, who was as exacting with Quidditch as she was in her history classroom, but who liked Viktor more when she saw how hard he worked to excel. She had started off as a Chaser for the Eagles in her youth, and within the last six years had played Seeker for her House. As a teacher now, she was not allowed back on the pitch as a player, but she took pride in imparting what she knew to Viktor. 

When the year was over, Viktor had a very good standing with the teachers (even, grudgingly, Karkaroff) and a system for maneuvering through the student body at Durmstrang. He disregarded House divisions when it came to making friends, and when the time came to ride the train back to Moscow, he shared a car with Zev, a Wolf called Sava, and Agrippina from the Ukraine. His parents were able to meet him at the station; they claimed they could hardly recognize him — how much taller and thinner and handsomer he had grown! He said nothing, introducing his family to the few people he wanted to know them, and holding back the urge to bury himself in his mother’s arms until they were all out of sight. 

For the first week, Viktor did nothing else but languish in the comfort of no longer being a foreigner. After a time, however, he began to get restless. He read, expansively, and thought of learning a language without a spell. He found, by the end of the second week, that he was no longer accustomed to sitting still in his flat all day. 

Any witch or wizard knows his story from that point on, all thanks to the year of publicity that lead up to the Quidditch World Cup. That Karkaroff became Headmaster that August after Oleg Theodosia passed away in her office, and how he insisted that Viktor, who had earned a spot with Eagle House Quidditch, be consigned to the second strait of players until the middle of his third year. That Viktor was the first Seeker to employ complex feints for his team, and how he grew fast, and strong, and sharp-eyed, and adept. That Stanislaus Lavrin sought him out when he was fifteen, and that Viktor Krum was training with his countrymen before his sixteenth birthday. These are facts in glossies and dailies in dozens of languages all over the world. This is how Viktor Krum emerged into the public eye. 

Very few people are in on the other side of the story, that Viktor never thought Quidditch would really get him anywhere, and how he found love in the complex matrices of Arithmancy and Fundamental Theory. That even before giddy Bulgarian teenagers began sending him their underthings via owl post, Viktor had to learn how to gently navigate Agrippina’s attentions and confessions. That he wasn’t just speaking platitudes when he answered the question _What’s most important in your life?_ with _My family._ He never suspected that when he boarded the ship to England, he would meet one more person with whom he wanted to share those details. This was one more thing revealed in the fullness of time.


End file.
